No Words
by Gameson221b
Summary: Love's tender silence.


Own nothing, just borrowed. Love is all I have.

* * *

><p>John Watson stared out the window, holding his aching, recently dislocated left shoulder against his body because the sling fitted to him to immobilize and support...did not...support. He tried to pace, but his bruised and swollen knee wouldn't allow a normal gait, so, stoically ignoring the throbbing in both parts of his body, he stood. It had been a bad couple of days and with Sherlock unaccounted for since early morning, he feared it wasn't going to get better any time soon.<p>

John stared at the mobile resting in his palm and nearly hidden within the folds of the sling, silently demanding that it deliver the text he desperately needed, but it refused to obey the Captain's order.

He never should have stayed behind. He should have been there. No excuse. He...should have been there. Berating himself didn't help relieve his guilt.

Tea. In times of trouble, he needed tea. Tea made everything better. John limped to the kitchen, but just as his fingers circled the handle of the kettle, his mobile vibrated in his hand. When the text appeared before his eyes, John dragged in a steadying breath. Lestrade.

_He's okay, a little the worse for wear, I think._

_How is he otherwise?_

_Pretty shaken up, quiet, could be a bit of shock. Doesn't want me to help him up the stairs._

_When will you arrive?_

_Be there in ten._

_Okay._

_How are you?_

_Better now that I know he's okay._

_Glad I texted, then._

_You'll tell me what happened if he won't?_

_Right. He probably won't, but it can wait._

_Okay._

_Go easy on him, John. It wasn't his fault. I think he's afraid you'll be cross with him.__  
><em>

_No worries, relief is all I've got._

_Good man._

Dropping his mobile into the pocket of his dressing gown, John hobbled back to the window to look out over Baker Street and wait.

* * *

><p>It was a long ten minutes.<p>

From his vantage point at the window, John watched Sherlock slap away Lestrade's helping hand as he escaped the car. On the pavement, they spoke briefly, Sherlock's body language shouting both his frustration and apprehension. Lestrade glanced up at the window, his quick wave an acknowledgement of John's presence. Returning the wave as a thank you, John remained at the window when the car pulled away and Sherlock was safely inside.

John heard the click of the lock and frowned at the sound of slow methodical footsteps as the detective made an arduous ascent to the second floor. Aware of the unmistakeable sound of Sherlock removing his coat and shoes, and the securing of the flat doors, he waited in silence, not at all surprised when the Sherlock padded directly to the loo. Regardless of the detective's adamant denial that he was bothered by it, avoidance of John Watson's anger was classic Sherlock Holmes behavior.

Despite himself, John smiled and sighed. Sometimes the only consulting detective in the world was an idiot, but Sherlock was his idiot and oh, how he loved the ridiculous man.

So he waited as the shadows of the night deepened on the street below. It wasn't long before the water stopped and the door to the loo opened again. John remained at the window even though the ache in his shoulder and knee cried out for relief.

No one was more stealthy than Sherlock Holmes when he wanted to move undetected, but he could not fool John Watson. Fine tremors raced through John's body as he sensed rather than heard Sherlock's approach. At first unsure if it was his pain or the anticipation of the detective's touch, John made his decision on the basis of the warmth curling in his belly. It was never wrong.

Holding his breath in a failed attempt to control his body, he shuddered when Sherlock closed in on him, leaning over his shoulder and wrapping his long arms around his waist. Safe within love's embrace, John accepted his tender apology, allowing his head to fall back against a most willing shoulder.

For several minutes more they stood by the window, neither willing to interrupt the comfort each derived from their reunion after a time apart.

When John carefully turned in Sherlock's arms to face him, he drew in a sharp breath to accompany the sudden constricting of his heart. Tears flooded his eyes and spilled over at the sight of the bruises along one side of Sherlock's beautiful face and the eye that would be swollen shut by morning. Gone was his doctor's manner, replaced by a lover's feathering touch at eyebrow, cheek and jaw. Steadying himself with a hand on the detective's shoulder, John went up on the toes of his stronger leg to kiss a swollen Cupid's bow.

There would be time to talk and gently admonish tomorrow. There were more bruises and hurts, John knew, and he would discover them, and kiss them away with loving care, but first, they both needed rest, proximity and mutual cuddling.

It was Sherlock who moved first, curling his long, slender fingers around John's smaller, sturdier ones. Sherlock, walking backwards, guided him toward the bedroom. John followed slowly, willingly, never allowing his gaze to waver from Sherlock's intense scrutiny.

In the cocoon that was their bedroom, exhaustion caught up with John. Attributing it to his own injuries and his worry about Sherlock, John gave in to it, dropping to the edge of the bed. Before he could lie down, Sherlock was beside him, carefully removing the sling and his dressing gown and supporting his arm and shoulder while tucking the duvet around him.

Gazing at Sherlock's softened features and the sad green eyes that missed nothing but the occasional social cue, but at this moment avoided eye contact, John observed with his heart and knew at once it wasn't his anger that Sherlock feared, but something of more significant value. Since the day their friendship evolved into something much more precious, John's approval had become a prize the detective coveted above all else but John's love, and absolutely nothing could hurt Sherlock more quickly and deeply than his army doctor's disapproval. As he reached for his hand and drew Sherlock down beside him, their eyes met and the sadness in those pale eyes made John's chest ache.

Turning onto his right side, John reached forward with his left hand, but the small movement forced him to grunt in pain when his shoulder protested. Sherlock immediately crowded in on him, curling his arm around John's ribs to form a bridge on which the doctor could rest his arm and shoulder. Once the pain eased and he was able to inch forward just enough, John curled his palm along Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock wriggled closer, pressing their foreheads together and from an inch away held his gaze. John had seen every hue those pale changeling eyes were capable of presenting, but he'd never before witnessed the shift. He saw it now, the entire spectrum, as green flowed like oil on water into an iridescent blue. He stared in amazement at being allowed this privilege. He was once again reminded of how unique was the man he loved and who loved him. John closed the distance between them to capture Sherlock's swollen lip in the tenderest of kisses.

There didn't seem to be a need for words as they lay there, wrapped up in each other and simply breathing together. John couldn't think of a single thing either of them could do to add to the perfection of that moment, but as he had learned on so many occasions, Sherlock could and often did surprise him with a tenderness no so-called high functioning sociopath could achieve.

With great care and gentle maneuvering Sherlock folded John's arms in the least stressful position and gathered him closer. With his head resting on a comfortable shoulder, John nuzzled into the hollow of Sherlock's throat and sighed to the accompaniment of soft humming.

In the past, John often wondered if the Holmes brothers could read minds. He had no doubt now that Sherlock could.


End file.
